A fine kite disappeared from Harry Grafton’s lawn, a ball that Rob Lindsey had been playing with could not be found, while at Sherwood Hall the lawn mower was searched for, and discovered in the brook.

Old Martin dragged it forth, remarking as he did so: 

“It looks like the work of old Nick, or that wild lad, Gyp.”

No one had seen Gyp around the place, but, for the matter of that, no one had seen him flying a kite, or playing with a ball.

The articles had disappeared, however, and, as usual, everyone thought Gyp the culprit.

“It took work, and time to make that kite,” said Harry, “I wouldn’t think any one would be mean enough to take it.”

“Unless it was Gyp,” said Rob, “he’s mean enough for anything, and I wouldn’t wonder if the same chap that went off with your kite, took my ball along at the same time.”

Both boys were urged to hunt carefully before accusing any one, but thorough search failed to bring forth either kite or ball.

Then Leslie missed a book that she had left on the piazza, and Dollie Burton lost her loviest doll.

Poor little Dollie!  She could not be comforted, and promises of a new doll caused a fresh outburst of tears.  It wouldn’t be the same one that she had loved so, and she refused to have a new one until later, when her grief would be less fresh.

It was in vain that Blanche told her that a new doll would be as dear as the old one, the little girl refused to play, and her cherub face looked very sad, the dimples failing to show, because the smiles would not appear.

“That bad boy, Gyp, has took it,” she wailed.

“Oh, Dollie, he might take a kite, or a ball from Harry, and Rob, but he wouldn’t want a doll!  Just think!  What would he do with a doll?”

“He’s got little sisters, you said he had,” Dollie replied, “p’raps he stole it for them.  I wouldn’t care if he’d just took my old one, but he was a bad boy to take my best one.  I’ll tell him so!  You’ll see!”

It was a baby’s threat, and Blanche did not dream that her wee sister would do anything of the sort.

Dollie had a good memory, however, and Gyp sometimes passed the house.

She was as determined as any older child might have been, to give Gyp the scolding that she thought he deserved.

Oddly enough, he passed the house the next morning.

His restless black eyes were looking furtively about as if in search of something that he might snatch.  Little Dollie, for the moment, had forgotten the lost doll.

With a long, flowering branch in her hand, she was walking up and down the driveway, looking more like a doll than anything else, in her dainty frock, her white socks, and bronze slippers.

“Sing a song o’ sixpence, A pocket full of rye,—­”

“Oh, you, you—­wait for me!” In her wrath, the wee girl had forgotten his name.